


disruption

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, M/M, Managing, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Side Effects, Trauma, self-harm ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Gil helps Malcolm through a series of issues related to managing his health.For PST Pride Bingo Kiss in the Rain.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Prodigal Son Pride Bingo





	disruption

If Malcolm looked close enough, he could see the ants skittering through the veins in his hands, marching up his arms in a long train to his brain. Beetles followed, their hardback wings fluttering as they chased for a meal, iridescent under his skin. Caterpillars brought up the rear, inching over his joints, crawling as they devoured everything in their path.

He scratched at the surface, thinking if he got a grasp, the whole food chain would disappear.

It didn’t.

A mouse nibbled his bones to little stumps picked clean. A snake gave chase and wound around his arm, squeezing out the life as a sacrifice. By the time Gil got back, there’d be no Bright left, merely remnants for saprophytes after stripping all the parts.

Dinner, he said. A rare treat of Japanese from down the street, only a few strips of chicken teriyaki for him and whole box of sushi for Gil with all of his favorites of dragon, shrimp tempura, and tornado rolls. They could line up at the kitchen bar or curl up and eat together.

Or, in Malcolm’s case, neither. His stomach protested as if there were worms inside of him, squirming through his intestines like parasitic Martin teeming through every last inch to hide out. Regardless of what he did, he destroyed more of himself than them — he couldn’t get rid of their presence. He was left unable to eat anything while everything else ate him.

Hiding away upstairs in his office, his hands took a fresh sheet of paper from the top of the rainbow stack to try to manage his anxiousness, his visions. Another step toward progress, hopefully not invoking the food chain again.

Fold, upon fold, upon fold Malcolm reduced the sheet of paper from a full 8”x8” to the smallest square he could make happen, then unfolded it all again to rip into little pieces, mini squares coming out of the big one. Nearly ten minutes of the task all told, a tiny pile of little blue fragments. He finished tearing apart the last two, and voila — the whole collection went into the garbage.

He took another piece of paper and repeated the same process, red over red until a whole pile of dead squares got swept away too. Orange, green, and even purple followed, an entire rainbow into the trash can. Nearly an hour, and only waste to show for it.

And fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. Give them something to do, he could manage. Stay at rest, and the truce didn’t last a minute.

“Bright, you’ve been at it kind of a while,” Gil’s voice came from the door, and he jumped in his chair.

Yellow next, yellow next he picked up another sheet, starting his folds.

“Kid, do you want to talk about it?” Gil asked, his voice coming closer on quiet footsteps, all of Malcolm’s concentration bent over his sheet of paper.

His fingers were rough against the yellow paper, creasing each of the folds into their flattest form before beginning the next. The activity carried the precision of creating a fine masterpiece, yet all it resulted in was trash.

“Hey.” Gil’s hand touched his knee, and Malcolm turned his head a little bit, finding Gil crouched beside him.

Malcolm’s fingers kept folding. Gil held out one of his pill bottles. “I already took it,” Malcolm said quietly.

“It’s not helping?” Gil’s words might as well have come across as a statement, as there was no way Malcolm could hide or stop the obsessive activity. He started ripping up the bits, and Gil’s fingers slid around to the back of his knee. “Your pulse is racing. Want to walk?”

He shook his head, not wanting to leave the loft in his current state. It was bad enough Gil got a private show Malcolm couldn’t turn off — he didn’t need to expand the audience.

“Pull-ups? Sit-ups? Some kind of exercise to get it out?” Gil seemed insistent on helping, but Malcolm didn’t know what to tell him.

“It’s not that easy.” Malcolm kept ripping as quarters became eighths, his head turned away from Gil.

“Can we try something?”

Malcolm didn’t refuse, but he didn’t stop ripping paper either.

“You’re stewing.” Gil’s hand squeezed Malcolm’s calf harder. “We can eat, or — “

“Stomach,” Malcolm said and whisked the small yellow pile into the garbage.

Malcolm looked for the next sheet of paper, but he'd need to reach through Gil to get it. "I'm gonna — " he started and pushed away from his desk, standing. He left the room and turned toward the stairwell to hurry further upstairs.

"Kid, wait up," Gil called.

Malcolm’s feet bounded up, landing at the door to the roof. He swung it open and stepped out, getting hit with a rush of downpour that drenched his t-shirt and lounge pants so they stuck to his body, trapping him inside. Not caring, he walked to the opposite ledge, staring down to the street below as his chest heaved.

"It's pouring," Gil's voice came advising the obvious, then Malcolm heard the click of the door latching closed again. It was mere moments before Gil's hand rested in the middle of his back.

A sob shuddered Malcolm's frame, and his hands dug into the ledge. If he could just grab the right thing, find the right solution, maybe it would all stop. "Kid?"

"I'm not okay." Malcolm’s words came out on one breath, another following right behind it as his air exchanged for panic.

"That's okay." Gil blocked one side of his view back toward the loft, Gil’s chest pressed against his shoulder.

The whole food chain kept coming back, racing up Malcolm’s arm and disappearing as the next predator ate it. “I want to scratch my skin off — rip out the demons." He could feel them below the surface, contemplating dinner.

"Kid — "

Rain plastered Malcolm’s hair to his face, but it didn't wash away his stress. He flexed his fingers, flicking off a fresh set of ants. Voice shuddering, he tried to hold back a wall of tears. “The urge is there.”

"Did you — "

"No," Malcolm cut him off firmly, halting a dip toward concerned. “I won't.”

“Can I — “

Malcolm took the hand Gil had outstretched toward him and pressed a long kiss to the back, latching on for help. Instead of letting Gil continue to ask him what he needed, Malcolm burrowed his head into Gil’s chest. Gil kissed the top of his head.

“Kid — “

“Just hold me,” Malcolm mumbled into Gil’s drenched sweater. Worry that it might get ruined in the inclement weather distracted him for a moment, but then anxiousness returned on a rat sneaking over his wrist.

“Inside?”

“Right here.”

Gil’s hand went into his hair, rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay.”

Malcolm was running out of alternatives. There wasn’t a ‘take two and call me in the morning’ sort of solution for his set of diagnoses, and sometimes he tired of the wheel of attempts he spun through trying to manage them. Absent anything he could find to help him, he turned to Gil, seeking his embrace while he sobbed in the downpour.

“You can do this. I’ve got you,” Gil said.

Malcolm didn't know how, so he soaked in the reassurance as if he could absorb enough to mop away the disturbance.

* * *

Malcolm’s agita went from every once in a while to nearly every day in the week, from unknown cause. Work wasn’t more stressful, his mother hadn’t dropped in, he wasn’t triggered, he was just… not okay.

He’d wake up anxious, and it never went away throughout the day, despite taking his medicine, even with the extra as neededs. He fiddled with yoga for hours trying to find an evasive center, reformed his cube of magnets into every possible sculpture, and went on longer and longer walks that landed him right back where he started.

“We’re going to adjust a few things,” Gabrielle said.

By the time his meds changed, he was getting out of bed in the middle of the night and going out for a walk down the street when he couldn’t quiet his heart or his mind. He’d come back to Gil waiting in the kitchen, aware of any disruption in the space.

So Gil wasn’t sleeping either.

“Warm milk?” Gil offered.

“N-no cocoa.” The mere thought of anything connected to his father made everything worse.

“Just with honey.” Gil’s hands stuck out from his sides in defense.

“Okay.”

Malcolm took Gil’s seat at the bar, and Gil stood behind him after putting the milk on to warm, wrapping his arms around him. Gil took each of his hands, giving him something to hold on to. “Where to tonight?” Gil asked.

“Pier again.”

“Buggy?”

Mosquito season wasn’t his friend, every miniature creature vying to get a piece of him. He’d swatted away enough before he just decided to turn back and head for home. “Yeah — tried to make it quick. Sorry I woke you.”

Gil rested his chin on top of Malcolm’s head, each movement of his jaw rocking into Malcolm’s skull. “It’s really okay. I feel better knowing you’re alive.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” Malcolm complained. Not close to his mother’s epic paintbrush, yet the same intent lay underneath.

“This is you we’re talking about.” Gil’s tone had some teasing laced in with his concern.

“I wouldn’t go down without a fight.” Not that anyone ever bothered Malcolm on his late night walks.

Gil went quiet, keeping any response to himself.

It was what Gil wasn’t saying that screamed into Malcolm’s brain. “You’re worried about me. About my head.”

Gil lowered his head into Malcolm’s neck, a warning that Malcolm wouldn’t like what he had to say. “Yes.”

“I am too,” Malcolm said quietly, looking at the stove. It wasn’t a statement that brought him frustration or anger, just the reality that he didn’t know how to address. “The milk’s going to skin.”

Gil pulled away to make Malcolm his honey milk. “I’ll sit with you every time, you know,” he said, sliding the mug of warm milk in front of him. “Anything you need.”

“A good night’s sleep,” Malcolm joked.

Malcolm clung to the mug, looking into it like all of life’s answers could be found at the bottom. Swishing the liquid around, he didn’t uncover anything in the milky abyss.

* * *

As days passed, they came with other versions of challenges. Gil’s lap was full of a bundle of Malcolm, Malcolm’s face pressed into his chest, Gil’s hand idly rubbing the back of the kid’s neck while watching television. “You alright?” he asked softly. “Kinda clingy tonight.”

“Zombie,” Malcolm mumbled into his sweater.

Malcolm was drowning in sweatpants and a sweatshirt so large he might as well have pulled them from Gil’s wardrobe. All he was missing was a hood to make his whole body disappear.

“Feel like I got tranq’ed.”

“Changes were supposed to help you feel better — not worse.” 

Malcolm hadn’t quite expected… this, and he knew it was a new experience for Gil, who tended to lean toward medications coming with upsides instead of their litany of side effects. “You weren’t there for some of the earlier ones, but worse happens. A lot.”

Gil ran his hand soothingly up and down Malcolm’s back, the movie dissolving into the background. “I don’t like worse.”

“Not exactly a party for me right now, either,” Malcolm said. It pained his heart, gripped his gut with concern that wouldn’t pass, heavier than the one bite of pasta that sat in his stomach. Though it might have been difficult for Gil to comprehend, worse was still better than the way worse Malcolm would be without any medication.

“Can I do something?” Gil persisted, his tone carrying he would do anything to reduce Malcolm’s helplessness.

Malcolm wasn’t jumping out of his skin anymore, but he was practically a puddle in place of his livelier self. “Hold me?”

“Is that not what this is?” Gil hugged him a little tighter, rubbed his jaw with his thumb.

“On the scale of holding…”

Gil kissed his forehead and squeezed him again. “Anything you need, kid.”

“Ten. You’re always a ten,” Malcolm mouthed into his sweater.

“Now you’re pulling my leg,” Gil teased, ruffling his hair.

“Trying to make sure dinner doesn’t disappear,” Malcolm joked back.

Gil had packed Malcolm’s portion into the fridge when he said he really wasn’t up to eating that moment. It was a regular occurrence that Malcolm knew concerned him just the same, so he had attempted a bite that his stomach still protested. “Only keeping me for my food?”

“And hugs.”

“Good to know.” Gil rubbed Malcolm’s temple. “Kid — ”

“It’ll pass — it always does.” Eventually.

Gil stayed quiet, keeping his level of worry unvoiced, yet Malcolm could feel it in the tension in Gil’s thighs, the light sighs that moved Gil’s stomach, and the stretch of the muscles in Gil’s chest as his head tipped down to check on him.

* * *

“We need to stabilize your mood,” Gabrielle told Malcolm.

So if anxiousness rattling off of him to the point he couldn’t function wasn’t it and unmoving zombie wasn’t it either, further medication adjustments were intended to find the in between. Some level of stasis he could coexist with his partner and go back to work.

As a consultant, he wasn’t entitled FMLA leave, not that he was particularly willing to listen to Gil’s advice anyway. He would’ve been headed to the precinct right that moment had Gil refrained from mentioning his superiors had indicated he wasn’t welcome on a case until he was feeling up to it.

How had Gil’s superiors even known?

“It’s not okay!” Malcolm screamed, lashing out his anger in slamming his fists into the bookcase.

With a crack, one whole side of the bookcase came crashing down on top of him. Wood and books covered his whole body in a haphazard pile.

“Stay still,” Gil ordered.

But he couldn’t. Still frantic with energy trying to escape everywhere, Malcolm squirmed underneath. Gil must’ve lifted the wood frame, for as soon as Malcolm felt the extra weight disappear, he shot out from the pile, scrambling backward on the floor.

Pushing to his feet, he took one step and fell again, face first onto the hardwood floor as his ankle screamed.

“Bright — wait. Stop a second — let me help you.”

Malcolm’s yips overwhelmed him — he had nowhere to escape to. Gil was left cleaning up after him again, trying to contain his explosion when he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair — it wasn’t…

Gil’s hand touched his back. “What hurts?”

Everything. “Ankle.”

“I’m gonna pick you up. That alright?”

“Yeah.”

In a swoop, he was in Gil’s arms and to bed. His head propped on top of one pillow, Gil ran to the closet to get more to further elevate his head and feet. Ice followed, wrapped around what he assumed was swelling.

“Breathe with me. Big, deep breaths.”

“It's not okay,” rushed from Malcolm’s mouth. The words repeated in his head as Gil continued speaking.

“What can I — “

Malcolm grabbed the garbage can from the bedside, getting sick into it as waves of pain and stress forced his stomach to rebel.

“Nice, deep breath with me,” Gil repeated, taking the can from him as he turned over onto his side and clutched his stomach.

Malcolm drew a breath in, attempting to follow Gil’s lead, yet he let it escape as panic washed over him again. His ankle throbbed in time with his heart, and his breaths raced to match them, taunting him that he couldn’t follow a simple instruction.

“Hey, hey.” Gil grabbed his hand and pressed it to his neck. “Just like me. C’mon.”

He thought of Sunshine and days she spent out of her cage all day, happy as could be playing with her latest toys. Thought of Gil staying home for the day and spoiling him with Malcolm-sized bites of his favorite meals. Thought of weekend mornings they just didn’t bother, lounging in the sheets until one of them had to hit the bathroom.

He breathed a little slower, no more easily, yet at a pace that didn’t threaten his passing out at any moment. Gil rubbed his shoulder and encouraged him to continue, “That’s it — nice and slow.”

Malcolm’s breath caught, yet Gil rubbed his back through it. When his breathing stuttered again, Gil was there holding him until he could refocus to a long, smooth intake.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, taking Gil’s hand in his. The thought of someone else talking about his health on his behalf terrified him. He knew it wouldn't have been Gil, but _who?_

“Can I get an ibuprofen into you?”

Malcolm shook his head. “I’m alright.”

“It’s twice the size, Bright,” Gil cautioned.

“I’m sure it’s just a sprain.” The pain was there, kinda, but not really, blurred in with the mix of his other stresses.

“Do you want me to take you to get it looked at?”

Malcolm gave him a stare that shared both of them knew he wasn’t going to willingly go to a doctor. It was going to be Gil forcing him or deciding it wouldn’t be worth the trip.

“If you can make it around on crutches later, I’ll let it be.”

“Crutches?”

“I keep them in the hall closet for a reason.”

Accidents didn’t happen _that_ often. Not that Malcolm was counting. “Could I — could I get some space for a little bit?”

Gil rubbed his elbow. “Yep. I’ll clean up living room.”

“No, like — “

“I’ll go upstairs?” Gil said instead.

“Thanks.” Malcolm hated to send Gil away, but he needed the day to himself. He wished Gil could go about his day and head to the precinct, yet knew there was no hope of that happening. Alone, he considered whether he would still have a job as a consultant by the time Gil's superiors decided what 'feeling better' meant.

* * *

Malcolm was pretty sure breaking the studs on the bookshelf qualified as a meltdown. “A freak accident,” Gil told him, re-anchoring that side and putting stronger anchors into the other side so something like that couldn’t happen again. But Malcolm knew he was prone to bouts of anger that flashed over him like a reckless fire. He couldn’t promise he’d never let it out again.

The momentary explosion did leave him drained, though, and he got his first consecutive days of extended sleep in weeks. He reminded his brain not to give in to associating the two events, that Gabrielle would not condone physical anger as a coping mechanism. Fuck, he felt bad enough for bringing that level of distress into their relationship that it made him want to try new calming techniques so he wouldn’t repeat it. He couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again, but he could work to try to lessen its impact or frequency.

“You can do this,” Gil’s voice echoed in his head. Malcolm had a hard time believing the words coming from himself, but they meant the world from his partner. Maybe he could.

"Write up a statement of what you need to effectively manage your health while you're working, and the department will work with HR to make sure sufficient provisions happen," Gil explained, weary after a long day.

Malcolm had his doubts, but it was a few lines on a piece of piece of paper. Finishing the task quickly, he left it for Gil to look after in the morning, and the two of them nestled in on the couch.

* * *

Morning coffee each day turned into a quiet feeling out of how Malcolm was doing. Gil didn’t hit the issue head on, instead watching Malcolm’s body for tells. Malcolm let it happen — things had been bad enough, and it wasn’t worth arguing about. He got himself in enough trouble profiling Gil instinctually at times that he couldn’t give him a hard time about it.

Malcolm’s patience with Gabrielle had diminished, yet was slowly coming back as he felt more stable. A combination of things — therapy, routine changes, and medication adjustments — had helped life start to feel a bit more manageable again. Overwhelming, still, but manageable.

Malcolm’s ankle was stable wrapped, and he kept it elevated while he was sitting to help reduce the swelling. Two weeks later, he was moving about the loft just fine and reading a book while he sipped his coffee at the kitchen counter.

“You want to come in with me today?” Gil asked from where he stood across from him.

“Like a case?” Malcolm asked, his ears perking up.

“Yeah.”

“I’m still not… normal,” Malcolm said, holding a finger in his book to keep his place.

“You’re doing a lot better. What is normal, anyway?”

Gil seemed so sure, but Malcolm didn’t want to get his hopes up. “Are you going to be in trouble?” Malcolm asked.

“Let me deal with that. You've got my office when you need a quiet place, break time to go for a walk to clear your head, and the ability to work from home or take a day when you're not up to coming in.”

Some things Malcolm had asked for, and clearly an extra that Gil had penciled in. But he wasn't complaining. “I need to get my cube from upstairs,” he said, closing his book and standing, ready to walk away. But he changed his mind first, giving Gil a hug. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Gil kissed the top of his head. “You can do this.”

Progress, not perfect, yet Gil’s confidence made all the difference. Malcolm grabbed his magnet cube, his stress ball, and a few extra sheets of paper just in case. He was Superman turning back into Clark Kent, zipping into a suit and carting his menagerie with him to the precinct. Managing.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
